The Hourglass

So much is slight,
and therefore that much
more significant: white
petals that detach
from the tree to number
the grass with asterisks,
thin points of a weathervane
that intersect with sky;
the shy words of a child
who longs to speak and so
has learned to crease paper
into birds; the man who
polishes a knob of driftwood
and teaches it to harbor
birds. A drift of fine
sand passing from one
glass dome to another:
without so much as rising
above a whisper, yoking
this fractured moment
to the next.


In response to an entry from the Morning Porch.

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